


Recipe For Disaster

by DabMyWetties



Series: Randomly Inspired Oneshots [9]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dimension Travel, Existential Crisis, Humor, M/M, Magic, Many Worlds, Multiverse, Physics, Snark, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28608849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties
Summary: “Well, fuck,” the voice rings clear as the rending completes and Mitch stares blankly at...himself?He - or some whacked out Ren Faire super-stan version of himself - has just apparated in Scott’s kitchen at five o’clock on a Sunday evening and this isn’t a hallucination. This is just...this is just insanity. That’s really all it can be. The repeated subclinical head trauma, numerous concussions, too many drugs, something’s caught up with him finally and he’s lost his fucking mind.
Relationships: Mitch Grassi/Scott Hoying
Series: Randomly Inspired Oneshots [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/677834
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Recipe For Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blood Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212720) by [FreyaOdin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaOdin/pseuds/FreyaOdin). 
  * Inspired by [Bodyslam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910063) by [DabMyWetties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties). 



> Freya asked for writing suggestions on Twitter and I gave her some prompts and then a thing happened in my brain and here we are.
> 
> This is set in my [Bodyslam AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11910063), guest starring Scott & Mitch from Blood Lines - all with a nod to the mysteries of the [multiverse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1351663).

“This is probably a terrible idea. You know that, right?”

He can hear a clatter from the kitchen below as a pan hits the stovetop. “Have some fucking faith in me. Jesus, you’re an asshole sometimes,” Scott retorts, more amused than annoyed. “You trust me to smack you with a fucking chair but not to cook dinner?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shifts around, trying to get comfortable. He’s been banished to the loft while this whole cooking adventure happens; the space isn’t exactly ideal for finding an acceptable position to answer emails without his back screaming at him. “You lit an oven mitt on-fucking-fire trying to cook chicken. Literally, the thing used to protect you from getting burned was engulfed in flames. I think my concern is valid when you’re actually using a baking sheet for its intended purpose instead of clocking me in the face with it.” 

“Yeah, well,” some more clattering and banging indicates this process is well underway. “You’ll see. I’ve got a  _ recipe _ this time.”

Yes, because  _ that’s _ the problem with Scott in the kitchen: recipes or lack thereof. “I appreciate it and all, I’m just saying we should play to our strengths here. You’re so,” he grits his teeth briefly. “... _ good _ at loading the dishwasher. It only makes sense if I cook and you clean up, right?” 

The clattering stops for a moment. “Oh, shut the fuck up. I just wanna do something nice for you, can you calm down please? How bad can it be? I burn dinner and we have to order in? Big fucking deal.” 

He does have a point there. “Shit. Fine, I look forward to being proven wrong, Gordon Ramsay. Since I can’t work under these conditions I’m gonna nap,” Mitch calls down over the resumed sounds of culinary chaos, trying not to let his smile leak through into his voice. 

“You’re lucky I love you.” It sounds like Scott’s trying to hide a smile too.

“You’re lucky I let you.”

***

Mitch is jolted awake by a sound he can’t quite identify and a panicked “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh shit oh fuck, oh FUCK WHAT THE FUCK!” from the kitchen below.

In his sleep-hazy mind he can only think that there’s another oven mitt fire, and his immediate reaction is to roll out of bed and nearly tumble down the stairs in his haste to make sure Scott doesn’t try to throw it out the window again. 

There is no fire.

Well, not really.

There’s...something. 

Someone dosed their lunch with slow-acting, incredibly intense acid. It’s the only explanation he can think of as Mitch stands at the base of the stairs staring into the kitchen at... _ something _ . 

From a deep recess in his mind a phrase swims to the surface, a thing he read once, the only descriptor he can manage: Eldritch abomination. A creature so outside reality that the human mind can’t comprehend it, so alien or extradimensional or physics-breaking that words simply do not exist to describe it. Something otherworldly, something beyond comprehension.

Something inconceivable.

_ Something. _

Something is in the kitchen with Scott and his simple human brain can’t quite register what it is.

It’s vaguely humanoid. There are protrusions that may be limbs and a middle bit and maybe a head? He should aim for that part, Mitch thinks as time stretches and skews a little weird around him. He should aim for the head part. 

Whatever is happening is beyond his understanding but he needs to do something about it because it’s...standing? hovering? existing? directly between where he’s standing and where  _ Scott’s _ cowering against the counter and that’s not okay or acceptable. 

Though it feels like he’s moving through molasses Mitch’s trembling hand reaches to his right, to grab for anything potentially usable on the media console below the TV. Whatever’s heavy should do, right? Even as a distraction? He touches a remote control, a framed photo, and oh, a sculpture. It’s stone and solid and abstract, much like the  _ thing _ he hasn’t yet been able to process. 

“Scotty?” he manages through clenched teeth. “Hit the mat.”

Whether through training or terror Scott does as he’s told, crumpling to the floor. 

Mitch draws the weighty stone art back, muscles tensing as he winds up for a throw. If this is the world’s worst trip he’s gonna make a damn mess but hallucinations don’t smell like sulfur and darkness and emotions he doesn’t even have words for, do they? 

The  _ thing _ continues to exist, both moving and remaining in place at the same time, shimmering and sliding. Scott’s beginning to inch his way out from behind it, eyes darting between what makes no sense and Mitch, and they both wouldn’t see the same thing if this wasn’t real, so this has to be happening. 

“C’mon over here, out of the way,” Mitch urges. He can’t tell if the  _ thing _ understands English, or if it’s even reacting to either of them, but getting Scott closer to parts of the room that conform to reality is probably their best chance at escape so…

_ “...a rift of some sort.” _

Wait. 

_ “By the Lady, the old stories say they exist but no one’s seen them in living memory. I’m not passing up this chance.” _

Wait one fucking minute. That’s not a hallucination either because Scott perks up, starts to turn towards the voice coming from...somewhere? 

And before Mitch can process what he thinks he’s hearing there’s a - a shift or a ripple or a  _ rending _ that happens in the vicinity of the inconceivable and

and

his brain stutters, 

misfires.

Because this? This makes even less sense than the last five minutes of his life and that’s saying a whole fucking lot.

“Well, fuck,” the voice rings clear as the  _ rending _ completes and Mitch stares blankly at...himself? 

He - or some whacked out Ren Faire super-stan version of himself - has just apparated in Scott’s kitchen at five o’clock on a Sunday evening and this isn’t a hallucination. This is just...this is just insanity. That’s really all it can be. The repeated subclinical head trauma, numerous concussions, too many drugs, something’s caught up with him finally and he’s lost his fucking mind.

The Other Mitch looks between his counterpart and Scott, oddly focused eyes flicking back and forth, then he takes a good look at the... _ thing _ in the kitchen. “This isn’t what I was expecting at all,” he says after a moment, voice accented in a way Mitch - This Mitch - can’t quite place.

Scott finally finds words. “What. The. Fuck,” he chokes out. Almost imperceptibly he begins inching closer to This Mitch, to the...to the real one? 

“Let me just…” the Other Mitch does something graceful and complicated with his hand and the creature in the kitchen shimmers and fades. “How did you two summon a kitchen daemon?”

That’s it. He really has lost his fucking mind. This Mitch slowly lowers his hand, the hand still grasping the sculpture and ready to throw, and lets his weakening legs give out beneath him. From his seat now on the floor, he just blinks mutely up at what must be some sort of bizarre manifestation of some aspect of his psyche. 

But why this? He doesn’t even  _ like _ Renaissance Faires. They’re weird. 

Scott’s finally reached his side, scuttling across the floor towards the Mitch he knows and away from...whatever’s going on over there. 

“You’re the grapplers, aren’t you?” the Other Mitch asks, studying them. 

For some reason This Mitch responds to...himself. “The what?”

“You two engage in combat sport performance, right? Some sort of grappling. I’m pretty sure I remember you, though memories  _ are _ fickle at best beyond the Café.” 

“I don’t…” The Other remembers them? Café? “We’re, um. Professional wrestlers. And I’m pretty fucking sure this is all a result of head trauma. I don’t even know why I’m talking to myself.” 

The Other Mitch nods slowly. “You have no idea what’s going on, do you? I can probably clear some things up, but if you’ll give me a moment…” he trails off and, eyes oddly focused again, scans Scott’s apartment before mumbling quietly to himself, first an  _ I hope this works _ and then something incomprehensible 

\- and incomprehensibility is the aesthetic today, fucking isn’t it? -

his nose scrunched in concentration while he does a weird motion with his hand, and then a  _ thing _ happens. A little...thing. A fairy? Yes, now Mitch’s poor battered brain is having his bootleg LARPing alter-ego just go ahead and summon a fucking fairy from thin fucking air. He continues to stare blankly as the Other Mitch speaks quiet gibberish to the creature, as it then flits over to the oddly ripply section of the kitchen and fades from existence as quickly and nonsensically as it’d appeared. 

The Other Mitch looks back at them. “Since I have no idea how you’ve managed to accomplish what you’ve accomplished I’ll need reinforcements. Just try to stay calm and I’ll explain as best I can, okay?”

Yes, of course.

Reinforcements. 

The word jolts Scott. Where he’d just been sitting next to Mitch, to This Mitch, shoulder pressed tight against an anchor to reality, he then moves, sudden and quick, at  _ reinforcements _ . With a practiced slide and twist he puts his body between the two Mitches.

And This Mitch likes that, kinda. He likes that his fracturing psyche still realizes that Scott wants to protect him. It’s reassuring, that some semblance of reality is still there. 

It’s cute.

Mitch smiles.

His smile freezes when the rippling, the  _ rending _ happens again and another Scott crossfades into view. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” This Scott,  _ his _ Scott, groans. 

“Oh, now this  _ is _ interesting,” the Other Scott tilts his head curiously before turning his attention to the Other Mitch. “How in the absolute fuck did this happen?”

The Other Mitch shrugs. “That’s why I sent for you. There was one of your kitchen daemons right where we’re standing but,” he gestures broadly around the apartment. “There’s no magic here, and while they haven’t said much they don’t seem to know how it got here.”

_ Magic? _

“Huh,” Other Scott looks through them, head tilted again.

“I suspect,” Other Mitch has turned his attention to the rending place, voice sounding distant now. “That this  _ rift, _ this thinning, might be a clue as to how the Café works. It almost makes sense.”

Thoroughly resigned to the fact that this is all an elaborate construct of repeated head trauma or possibly an out of control MRSA infection, This Mitch shifts his body enough to see This Scott’s face so he can try and work out whatever it is his brain wants to work out. “I can’t quite figure out what the café I’m talking about is supposed to be. Starbucks? We do love Starbucks.”

“We do,” This Scott agrees hesitantly. “What the fuck is happening here?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m having some sort of episode. Too many shots to the head. Maybe tetanus from the barbed wire? Does tetanus make you see things?”

“Yeah, no,” This Scott glances over at the two kitchen interlopers. “It’s not just you seeing things.”

“Do you really have to argue with me in the middle of my own hallucination?”

“You’re not hallucinating,” the Other Mitch interrupts them, barely restraining his audible frustration. “The force that keeps our worlds separate has...ruptured, somehow, here in your kitchens. This is not a common event.”

“Our...worlds?” This Scott asks, further proving that he’s just another manifestation of Mitch’s mind because that’s exactly what  _ he _ was about to ask. 

The Other Mitch rubs his forehead and looks at Other Scott. “You’re better at explaining, care to take this one?”

“Right,” Other Scott shakes his head, snapping to attention, and it’s so exactly like the real Scott’s mannerisms when he’s been spaced out and distracted that This Mitch feels a little woozy. “Um, quite a few iterations seem to use the term multiverse. Is that a word you use here?”

What?

“I think so?” This Scott answers before Mitch has a chance. 

And, okay, that word does mean something. Multiple universes. A cat in a box both alive and dead, maybe? He’s heard of this. 

But the Other Scott is speaking again, this time to the Other Mitch. “Are you sure this is a good idea? That we’re talking to them?”

Other Mitch shrugs. “There’s no real actionable magic here so it should be trivial to,” he waves a hand near his head and says something in what might be a different language. “It seems to happen on its own after leaving the Café so it may not even be necessary once we pass back through the rift.” 

“Solid point,” Other Scott nods before turning his attention back to the pair still cowering on the floor. “Did either of you ever consider another livelihood? Perhaps when you were children?”

Well, no, not really. Mitch has wanted to be a wrestler for, like, ever. But. “Kinda?” he answers without thinking. “When I was real young I wanted to be a famous actor, or maybe a singer.”

Other Scott snorts, amused. “Seems to be a popular choice. Imagine that you’d decided to pursue acting, or singing, or some other path. According to mystics and scientists and other smart people I don’t have names for, each time you make a choice like that, both options actually occur. The livelihood you chose, that’s where you are now - but there’s also another you, a different one in a different plane of existence, that chose to be a singer. There are, theoretically, infinite numbers of you based on infinite numbers of major and minor choices and decisions made over all of time and space.” He nods at Other Mitch. “Both of you, across the stars, across physics, across time even. Think of it like a tree, with branches that split forever.”

The only thing This Mitch can do is stare at Other Scott. 

It makes sense.

Except for the whole infinite thing. Which is, which is frankly - it’s nuts, right? Totally nuts. 

“How the fuck do you expect us to believe any of this?” Scott - the real one - rises to his feet, frowning, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“How the fuck did that daemon wind up in your kitchen?” Other Mitch is watching This Scott, brow arched. “I know you’re not stupid. Why are the mundane versions of us so fucking stubborn?” 

This Mitch swivels his head between the two, now staring each other down, as though he’s watching Salvador Dali painting a ping-pong game. They both have a point, really, but what did he - the other he - mean by…

“Versions?” This Scott’s voice is brittle and hard when he asks it.

And, yeah. That. Versions?

“Under normal circumstances,” Other Mitch continues like they’re experiencing anything close to  _ normal circumstances. _ “These universes only cross, metaphysically speaking, in one nebulous place, a place where the veil between our worlds is the thinnest. It’s called the Multiverse Café, and somehow - we have no idea the mechanism involved - infinite iterations of us randomly and periodically show up there and just...socialize.”

“Iterations? Of  _ us _ ?” As This Mitch asks the question he recalls what the Other Mitch had said minutes ago -  _ I remember you. Memories are fickle beyond the Café. _ \- and a weird thing happens deep in his mind. 

“Yes. I’m sure I’ve seen hundreds of iterations, if not an uncountable number, though my recollections are largely memories of memories. As best we’ve been able to determine, conscious memories from the Café don’t carry wholecloth back into our respective worlds but, for some of us, there is some recall. It seems more common for there to be a subconscious awareness.”

This Mitch has to look away from his own unblinking eyes. 

Fuck.

Clearly, for a moment, in his mind he sees a dingy, black and white checkerboard tile floor and he knows, somehow, that he really isn’t hallucinating. 

Fuck. Now what the fuck is he supposed to do with this information?

“There’s still a fairly large lingering question,” the Other Scott pipes up into the silence. “How did you manage to summon a daemon from our realm into yours? Because whatever you’ve done was enough to rend the space-time continuum and drag one of  _ my _ kitchen helpers through a rift that shouldn’t exist.”

Yes, because  _ that’s _ important right now, and...actually, that does sound pretty important. 

“I was making dinner,” This Scott retorts, defensive. “It showed up here, I didn’t do anything.”

“What exactly were you making for dinner?” 

“Lasagna,” This Scott still sounds defensive.

Mitch finally tears his eyes from the floor he’s sitting on but not really seeing, looking up at This Scott. His Scott. “Since when do you know how to make lasagna?”

“I don’t. I found a recipe.”

“Well that sounds ominous,” the Other Scott drawls. “May I see this recipe? I know a bit about summoning things as well as fucking up any culinary attempts by my own hand.”

“Yeah, it's,” This Scott pauses, frowns, then shakes his head. “It’s on a piece of paper on the counter behind you somewhere.  _ The Best Lasagna In the Universe, _ it’s called.” 

How, precisely, is he supposed to wake up tomorrow morning knowing that thousands or millions or more other MItches exist and just...act like everything is normal? Not only that, but an untold number of Scotts, too? That he’s literally feet away from himself, another version of himself, from another fucking plane of existence?

That, apparently, magic is a thing that exists?

How does life just go back to the way it was after a literal, non-philosophical, motherfucking existential crisis? 

What other sorts of Mitches are there? What other sorts of Scotts? 

And - 

Mitch snaps his focus back to the living room. This Scott and the Other Scott are standing next to each other, closely examining a sheet of paper. 

Two Scotts. Their clothing styles are wildly different, their bearings moderately different but, functionally, there are two identical Scotts. Mitch tilts his head. They both frown identically as they read what’s printed in the lasagna recipe; the angle of their shoulders and the cant of their hips are eerily, frightfully the same as they hold an actual conversation without anyone else in this room having an existential crisis  _ other than him, _ for fuck’s sake.

But wait.

Mitch tears his eyes from the two Scotts, looks over at the Other Mitch. “You said there are hundreds or more...iterations?...of me, and hundreds or more of Scott?”

“Theoretically speaking there’s an uncountable number of us, a literal infinite sea of Scotts and Mitches. But, yes.”

He chooses his next words carefully, not quite sure why this is important but sensing, on some level, that it is. “A minute ago you said...you said iterations of  _ us. _ Are they all an  _ us _ ?” 

The Other Mitch ponders the question, eyes narrowing. “As best as I can remember, which, not surprisingly, seems to be easier standing next to this hole in the stars, the vast majority are an us.”

This Mitch turns the piece of information over, lets it marinate in his brain as his gaze shifts to the meeting of the Scotts in the kitchen. 

“...I should know better than to ask this, but it didn’t even occur to you that a recipe instructing you to wave your hands and speak words in a language you don’t understand over a dish of pasta might be questionable?” the Other Scott is giving This Scott a withering look, and it’s a look This Mitch has seen before more than once, usually directed at him.

It’s disconcerting.

“Look, it says right here,” This Scott jabs a finger at the recipe. “That it’s her Nonna’s traditional recipe.  _ Traditional. _ ”

“Is it  _ traditional _ in this realm to incant  _ klaatu barada noodle _ over dinner?”

“...probably not?”

This Mitch turns back to the Other Mitch. “Like, seriously, now what? Twenty-fucking-eight years of everything I thought was normal just got blown up in the last hour, and I have to step into the ring and eat lunch and up my max deadlift and otherwise live my everyday life knowing things like magic and parallel universes and  _ other Mitches _ exist. How do you just...accept that?” 

“Hm,” the Other Mitch glances at the now-bickering Scotts and then back. “I don’t know how much this will upset you, but you almost certainly won’t actually remember any of this. It seems the Lady, or the multiverse, or the stars themselves, or some force we don’t have a name for prefers the realms stay mostly separate. Assuming that the rift that your beloved pain in the ass rent between worlds operates in a similar fashion to the quantum mechanics of entering and leaving the Café, once we leave here we’ll also leave your conscious memory.”

“Y’know,” This Mitch is watching his counterpart closely. “It takes some big fucking brass balls to blatantly lie to the one person in this room who knows exactly what it looks like when you’re lying. We’re kind of the same person.”

At least the Other Mitch has the good grace to look properly, if only mildly, embarrassed.

“...you’re lucky that there seems to be a misprint in this document,” the Other Scott is back to studying the recipe. “This could’ve gone extremely badly.”

The Other Mitch sighs. “Fine. Closing the rift will probably take care of the whole existential crisis thing but before we go I’ll weave a simple mask for the time we’ve spent together here just in case. Either way, you won’t remember and you won’t be burdened with the knowledge.” He pauses, frowns. “Not that the knowledge itself is a burden, but I understand in this realm that it would be too much.”

He’s gonna do what? “You’re gonna wipe our memories? Like with the flashy thing from that movie?” This Mitch whispers harshly, though as he asks it he recognizes that he wants that exact thing to happen. 

He likes his life. He’s very fond of his life right now. 

He doesn’t want to remember any of this.

Mostly.

“I can’t actually erase your memories,” the Other Mitch replies softly. “But I can make it so, as far as you’re concerned, something else entirely happened. Think of it like painting over an old canvas you no longer want.”

This Mitch turns to watch the Scotts for a moment again, then meets his mirror’s eyes.

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ let me forget that there’s an  _ us _ across the stars.”

***

“...burnt it to a fucking crisp. Like, it was literally a smoking black chunk of carbon when I opened the oven. I had to throw the baking dish away it was so bad.”

Mitch walks unnoticed into the weight room, his footsteps and, apparently, the clunk of the security door masked by the riotous laughter from within. He could hear the noise from outside the arena.

So much for a hardcore workout with the boys; Scott, Renny, Chuck, and Psycho are sitting on the weight benches gossiping and, knowing them, telling embellished and increasingly elaborate road stories. Dumbbells and barbells litter the mats like discarded toys.

Scott catches sight of him, finally, and his smile brightens. “There you are. Got your errand taken care of?”

“I did,” Mitch grins back, extending his bandaged right arm. “Hello, gentlemen. Scott’s finally owning up to his attempt at making dinner last weekend? Waking up to the smoke alarm was fun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott waves the topic off. “Your important errand was getting another  _ tattoo _ ?”

“Several of them,” Mitch agrees, walking the rest of the way into the den of sweat and testosterone and plopping down on a free bench. “Did any of you actually work out or did we have another proverbial dick-measuring contest?”

“Pretty much the dick thing,” Renegade rolls his eyes. “Let’s see the ink.”

Carefully, Mitch loosens the tape holding the gauze in place and peels it away. His previously bare arm is now littered with a few dozen stylized stars from shoulder to elbow. 

  
  



End file.
